noticed that he was holding his temper in check, now spoke in a lighter voice, erasing the anger from it as best he could. She knew he didn’t want to quarrel with her in public, and also because he had been away for a week. She never knew what he did on those many trips he took alone, nor had she ever asked. But he was always slightly different when he came back: more considerate, less bossy, not as controlling.
But deep inside herself she knew he was going to manipulate her tonight, as he so frequently did. He had to have his own way. He had to win. She thought about mentioning her idea of taking Laurie to New York, and decided against it. What would be the point? He wouldn’t care about that. For his own reasons, he wanted the auction to be held in London, and what she thought didn’t matter. It never had. That was the way it had always been and always would be.
Annette sank down into herself, filled with disappointment, annoyance and a strange sadness. He had given her a degree of independence when he had agreed that she could open her own office, but he was still the boss. As far as he was concerned. Don’t argue with him; let it go, she told herself. And so she did.
The silence that fell between them was long and somewhat awkward. Annette was determined not to be the first one to speak, and she was strong willed when she wanted to be.
Eventually, Marius was forced to say something. ‘What would you like for dessert, sweetheart?’ he asked, his manner mild.
‘Nothing, thanks,’ she responded swiftly, then added, ‘Camomile tea will be enough.’
‘Not hungry?’ he asked, peering at her, taking hold of her hand, holding it in his. ‘You know you like the puddings here.’
‘Not tonight, Marius. Honestly, I’m not hungry any more.’
‘Don’t be angry with me, darling. I want what’s best for you. I know you must concentrate on doing important things in London at the moment. This is where you live, where you’re based, and where your career is. Where you had your first huge auction, your great success. I don’t think things would work in your favour in New York. Just as they wouldn’t if you chose to do it in Paris.’
‘Whatever you say. After all, you’ve been playing this game longer than I have. Anyway, I trust your judgement.’ A smile wavered on her mouth and was instantly gone. ‘London, Paris and New York, the biggest art cities in the world. So then, let’s pick London this time around, and why not? You’ve made some good points, Marius.’
A sense of relief rippled through him, and he felt himself relaxing against the banquette. He did not like to quarrel with her, and rarely did he have to, because she was usually acquiescent. But he had noticed of late that her inbred independent streak had grown stronger, and this rattled him occasionally. He needed her to be in step with him, not bucking his decisions. Thankfully she had fallen into line once more.
Looking at her, he said softly, ‘I promise you this will be the biggest auction London has ever seen in decades. And it will be far more important than your Rembrandt sale.’
‘And obviously bigger than it would be in New York? Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes, if you put it that way. London is better in this instance.’
‘All right, I’ll cancel the plans I made, and concentrate on making everything work here.’
He couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she was tonight. She was wearing a delphinium-blue silk suit and aquamarine earrings and the two blues emphasized the colour of her eyes. Her blonde hair was well cut and styled, shining in the candlelight, and she had the air of an accomplished, successful and sophisticated woman about her.
In a flash, in his mind’s eye, he saw that starveling girl he had first met when she was eighteen; so thin she was like a wafer, a look of poverty and deprivation clinging to her. She had come to him for a job at the Remmington Gallery in the early days, when it was first located in Cork Street, and he had taken her on to do weekend work out of pity.
She was neat and clean and nicely spoken, and she had tugged at his heart. And how clever she had been, so talented, a top student at the Royal Academy of Art. Her sense of colour, perspective and composition were extraordinary, and he was impressed with her paintings, which she had shown him so proudly. Yet, with his innate taste, his extraordinary understanding of art, his superior knowledge and experience, he had realized that although she was good, even brilliant in certain ways, she would never be a great artist. She would be one of many good painters, never a star.
He had given her a receptionist job at the gallery, taken her under his wing, looked after her. Within only a few days he had recognized the inherent beauty of her face: the high cheekbones, the delicate, perfect features, and those heart-stopping eyes; huge, bright blue, filled with intelligence. He had seen her potential as a woman, started to take an interest in her, instilling a sense of personal style in her, grooming her, teaching her about art, sharing his knowledge. And then one day she had let him down. It was only then that he understood about himself, his feelings for her. And he was shocked at his emotional entanglement. He had fallen in love with the starveling girl who had been stolen from him. Briefly.
She had come running back when serious trouble wrapped its tentacles around her. Frightened, panic-stricken, afraid of the police and what might happen to her, he had done the only thing he could do to make her feel safe, secure. He had married her. A few days after her nineteenth birthday, in early June. Twenty-one years ago this summer.
Slowly, painstakingly, with love and skill, he had created the woman he thought she could be and was today. She was entirely of his making. His creation. There were those vicious, jealous gossips who said she was Trilby to his Svengali. That wasn’t so, not in his opinion. He truly loved her; he had from the moment he had first seen her.
His best friend at the time had accused him of cradle-snatching, and he had laughed in his face. He had been thirty-eight, she a mere eighteen, so perhaps there was some truth in that, as he looked back now.
‘Marius, darling, what is it?’ Annette asked, touching his hand, staring at him. ‘Are you all right?’
She had roused him from his memories and, as he turned to her, he pulled himself together. ‘I’m fine. I was lost in my thoughts, that’s all.’ He cleared his throat, took a sip of wine.
‘What were you thinking about?’ she probed.
‘Something dragged me back into the past, to when I first met you, and I was thinking how beautiful you were.’
Annette stared at him, her brows puckering and she shook her head. ‘I was such a funny thin little thing,’ she countered. ‘Half starved, half demented, and hardly beautiful.’
‘Don’t say that … you were beautiful to me then, and you still are now.’
There is something quite splendid about Marius this morning, Annette decided, as she sat opposite him in the breakfast room, drinking her coffee. Showered, shaved, and with his mane of silver hair brushed back sleekly, he looked the epitome of good health and wellbeing. Dressed in a blue-and-white checked shirt, open at the neck, and grey trousers, he had a youthful look about him, due in no small measure to the tan he had acquired in Spain and his remarkably unlined face. He wears well, she thought; he looks so much younger than he is.
He
